


[frenzy]

by winchestersinthedrift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Institutions, Sam Hallucinates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Leaving My Brother Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470786) by [winchestersinthedrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift). 



‘Dean,’ says Sam, suddenly. He’s on the bed, not under the sheets but sitting atop them, today, half-cross-legged, one foot stretched out in front of him, and his skin today is several shades less pale than the white scrubs he’s wearing, so, that’s good. It’s a pretty good day. There’s a pile of books in front of him, slushy paperbacks on Ted Bundy. Dean looks up at him, eyebrows hovering. 

‘Yeah? You want something to eat? I can run up to Arby’s, get some-’

‘No, it’s - no,’ says Sam, and the colour’s a little up in his cheeks. He puts the books on the side table, deliberate, all weighted intention. Dean’s brow creases a little. ‘He’s gone, right now. I’m feeling - um - I can’t, see him.’

Dean never knows what to say, when this comes up, but he struggles towards - something. 

‘Good, that’s - that’s good, right?’

Sam shakes his head a little impatiently. 

‘That’s not - I mean, while he’s, I wanna - fuck, Dean, c’mere.’

Dean comes, confused, walks up to the bed and sits just on the side of it. He puts a hand next to Sam’s leg, careful, not quite touching him, but Sam leans towards him and runs a hand up the side of Dean’s thigh. 

‘I wanna,’ he says, thin but clear, ‘while he’s - can we try - I - please, have me, have me.’ 

Dean doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, hard, and his face goes all soft and hungry for a second, like the blink of a shuttered blind. He glances back at the door to the hallway. It doesn’t lock. That hardly registers, doesn’t matter. But there’s - but something does. Something matters. 

‘Sam,’ he says, ‘are you sure?’ He’s already crowding closer, can’t help it, shins pressing against Sam’s legs, hand slipping up to wedge between the mattress and Sam’s ass, but he makes himself take a breath, really look at Sam’s face. They haven’t for - god, a long time even before Sam was in the hospital, before the first heady days when Sam’s soul was back in his bones. Lots of holding, touching, long limbs pressed up close in one bed, but not - anything else, not for a long-stretched time. 

‘ _Dean_ ,’ says Sam, urgent. The grey-bruised circles are still under his eyes and his skin is stretched sore-thin on his bones, but his lips kinda quiver open in a way Dean knows and okay. He glances at the clock. He knows the rhythms of the ward like the pulse in Sam’s veins by now, which nurses wear loud shoes, which ones come a little late with the pills. He figures they’ve got eight or nine minutes. He kneels over Sam, one knee on either side of Sam’s thighs, hands sunk in Sam’s pillow, and Sam’s hands are in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and Sam’s saying _please please_ in this little husky voice and Dean doesn’t know if he means just this or everything, too, but here and _here_ there’s Sam against his mouth, under his hands, and he kisses him, presses the words back against Sam’s tongue. 

Sam lets his head fall against the pillows behind him, opens his legs wide and clings frenzy-tight to the front of Dean’s shirt and Dean gets a hand down between Sam’s thighs, just over the scrubs at first, tentative, trying to hold himself checked and careful (but _god_ when Sam flutters his tongue against Dean’s like that, presses up so his dick is hard through the cotton against Dean’s palm, god), and he goes _slow slow_ but he slips his hand down under the elastic waistband. He has to stop a minute and breathe, put his head down and breathe slow and harsh when he feels the bob of Sam’s cock against his hand and the thatchy softness of the hair around it. He hooks three fingers gentle behind Sam’s balls and strokes, soft, soft, up against the root of his cock and Sam curls his body up, stiffens beneath him. 

‘Do you-’ says Dean, ‘is it, are you-’ and Sam’s shaking his head, looking a little wild into Dean’s eyes and he says ‘no it’s - don’t stop, oh fuck, _fuck_ , Dean’ and Dean wriggles down between Sam’s legs, pulls the scrubs down under his ass and gets Sam’s cock in his mouth, pulls his wrist down a little and adjusts it so it’s not his fingers that are dragging under Sam’s balls anymore but his knuckles, kneading gentle and regular, and his other hand is planted hard on Sam’s thigh and Sam is gripping it, has his hand tight over Dean’s. Dean glances up once and Sam’s teeth are bared, hollow of his throat fluttering pink and soft, and he looks so much like he doesn’t belong here, like he belongs under Dean in some shitty motel room or in the sun-shot glade in the woods behind Rufus’ cabin, that summer - anywhere, really, out, anywhere that’s not this - that Dean almost can’t bear it, doesn’t think about it, just sucks and tastes and takes Sam in till he feels him bump against the back of his throat and jesus, he’d kill to keep Sam right there, he’d kill any fucking thing

– Sam comes, fast, all trembling relief and big hands clumsy over Dean’s face, and if Dean’s crying a little it’s mostly lost in the messy wetness of choking on Sam’s dick, and if Sam knows it’s not all that, neither of them say so.


End file.
